


Saturday

by Ouranos



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anger, Bullying, Homophobia, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:54:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2358617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ouranos/pseuds/Ouranos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, I have a confession to make.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> The details are fuzzy, the whole story is untold, but I had this scene flittering around in my mind, so I put pen to paper, digits to keyboard. The idea came from this gif I saw; people walking on a bridge.
> 
> (gif: http://33.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m2r58bIigq1r621gdo1_500.gif)
> 
> PS: If you spot any spelling mistakes, do let me know. Those are just awful.

“So, I have a confession to make.”

His mom didn’t stop walking, instead merely glanced over at him, making a sound that meant, go on. It was cold, too cold for November, but the sun was shining brightly. At least a hundred feet below them, bluish grey water was glistening. Thankfully neither of them suffered from fear of heights, otherwise they would never find themselves on a bridge overlooking an impossibly wide river, one that seemed to stretch on forever.

For some time now, the two of them would go on long walks on Saturday mornings of afternoons. They would drive out somewhere and explore another corner of the world. His mother was a big admirer of nature, of its vastness, its force, and Stiles saw the features of her face relax whenever they were away from the uproar that was the city.

The reflection of sunlight burned in his corneas, so, for the past fifteen minutes they’d been walking, he’d had his eyes half shut, squinting against the brilliance. Of course, his mother had been better prepared and was armed with sunglasses. Both of them, however, were dressed suitably to protect themselves against the cold: winter coats, thick scarves, woollen hats, gloves, and sturdy and warm boots.

Idle promenading was one of his mother’s favourite pastimes, which completely clashed with Stiles’ personality: he couldn’t sit still for the life of him and often found himself walking ahead of his mom, too eager to move around. One time, his mother had confided why she loved bringing him along. “You’re always so … hopped up, so nervous and jittery. I figured you could use some relaxing, sweetie.” It was true: he was agitated a lot of the time, especially because of his troubles in school. And so, when she had explained to him the motive behind their weekly or biweekly excursions, Stiles had accepted the enveloping embrace she had offered. How he loved his mother. He would be lost without her.

Stiles took a repeatedly used tissue out of the pocket of his coat and wiped at his runny nose. The cold was truly biting, but the stunning panorama compensated for chilled bones. Their breathing conjured little clouds of white floating around in the air, left behind them as they walked onwards. Today, their pace was a little faster than usual, a steadier stride that was necessary to fight the glacial air.

He coughed and his mother turned to look at him, her face carefree and open. “What is it?”  
Stiles shoved his hands as deep as they could in his pockets, and briefly buried his nose deeply in his scarf, welcoming the heat of his breath against his frozen chin and cheeks. His nose was red from the cold. The same was true for his mother and now they even looked more alike. “An unmistakable likeness,” his aunt had said about the two of them.

“Stiles?” his mother asked, eyebrows only the slightest bit raised. She had her left arm looped trough his. During the walk she had frequently leaned sideways and had looked over the railing, the earth seeming worlds away, but the sound of the moving water about reaching their ears nonetheless. It wasn’t at all windy today. In fact, everything was soothingly calm and quiet. Hardly any cars passed them. Certainly no people did. (“Who in their right mind would go out for a walk in this?” his father had said in a dismayed tone that morning, gesturing outside their kitchen window while the two of them were putting on their winter gear). Everyone was at home, curled up in bed underneath layers and layers of covers, blankets and duvets, drinking hot chocolate or tea. However appealing that was, Stiles was happy to be here.

“Sweetie, you zoned out again.” She spoke softly as she tugged on his arm. They passed the seventh expansion joint of the bridge –Stiles was counting.  
“Yeah, sorry,” Stiles apologized. “The confession making, right. Right,” he stalled.  
“You look uncomfortable. Is it serious?” She shook her head at the last question she asked and scrunched her eyebrows, obviously concerned.  
“No,” he claimed, “No, no, no, it’s not serious, per se, it’s just … something.”  
“Something?”  
“Yeah, something. Something I’d like to put out there," he motioned to the road ahead, "to tell you, and dad, too, but I just wanted to tell you … first.” His mom was the less tempered one, but also the tougher one.  
“Okay, but, honey, you know you can tell me anything right?” She blew a lock of brown hair out of her face, and when it landed in the exact same place, she tucked it behind her ear with a little grunt of annoyance, as far as the act was possible with a gloved hand and a hat-covered ear.  
“Yeah, sure, I know, I know, but. I don’t know, this is just, I don’t really know how you’re going to react.” He was rambling, as he did when he was nervous. Despite the cold, he was sweating underneath all of his layers. His back felt clammy.  
“Are you afraid I’ll be angry?” she asked.  
“Angry, worried, I don’t know.”  
“Worst case scenario, if I don’t like what you say, I’ll just throw you off the bridge. No witnesses,” she joked while poking his side. She often acted like a little kid.  
“Funny,” he said stoically, but smiled widely a second later, frozen and numb face locked in the expression. His mom always made him feel better, even if it was via dumb jokes.

When he was silent for too long, she promised sincerely, “Stiles, I swear, you can talk to me. No judgement.”  
“Mmh,” he mumbled.

Their steps were uneven; Stiles’ legs were longer and he was at least a head taller than his mother. He’d gone through his growth spurt recently. Their linked arms bumped up and down, unsynchronised. She squeezed him.

“I’m … I’m dating someone. Sort of.”  
His mother stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh, that’s fantastic!” Then she backtracked. “Wait, what do you mean, sort of?” She unlinked herself and stood by the railing. He followed suit and looked straight ahead at the shimmering surface in the distance. It had rained an hour ago, and the smell of it hung in the air.

“Uh …,” he began. “Uh, sort of in the sense that we are together … kind of.”  
“What?” she seemed confused. “Wait, who is this boy? If you wish to tell me his name, of course.” Her brown eyes searched his.  
Reluctantly, he confessed after three unsteady breaths. “Derek.” It was like ripping off a Band-Aid.  
“Hale?” his mother asked loudly. Her disbelief was palpable.  
Stiles couldn’t help but be offended and he turned away from her as he said, “What? Is that so hard to believe? I couldn’t get someone like Derek?”  
“Stiles, honey, that’s not at all what I meant and you know it.” He knew it. The previous comment was more a response he had in his head for all the kids at school, should they ever find out. “Surely you can understand why I’m a bit shocked,” she continued.

He returned to face her and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess.”  
“You guess? Stiles, he’s a bully! He’s bullied you for years. We’ve had so much trouble with him and his friends. What on earth happened?” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited for an answer.  
“I don’t know what happened. One day it was just the same old bullshit, and the next he’s kissing me.” He adjusted his hat, pulled it down over his eyes. Gloved fingers undid his work.  
His mother had a deep frown on her face. The lines ran deep and worried. “But … I thought you two didn’t get along.” That was the understatement of the century.  
“We didn’t. We still kinda don’t.”  
“Oh, honey,” she breathed, “I’m sorry. I assume this is what you mean by not really being together?”  
“Yes.”  
“Does he … Who knows about this?”  
Stiles was ashamed to say, “I don’t think anyone does. Well, Scott knows. That’s pretty much it. But if you mean his jock posse, then, no. They don’t.”

She was quiet for a moment, mulling it over, probably. Stiles put his chin on the metal railing, body plied in two, and looked down. Eventually she sighed and said, “I’m so sorry, honey.”  
“Yeah,” he accepted gracelessly. “I just … I just don’t know what to do.”

“He doesn’t deserve you,” she announced suddenly, but softly still. “I can’t believe that boy, the nerve of him.” Their minds worked in a similar fashion, and by now he was sure his mother had painted the correct but completely depressing picture: Derek was a closet case. An angry one. And Stiles didn’t know what on earth he was doing sneaking around with him of all people. His mother was right, Derek was a bully, part of a whole group of them. It was a classic case of prey on the weak. Stiles had had a tough time in school as a kid. Not very well-liked, too spastic for the liking of many, extremely smart, having awkward social behaviourisms, looking gangly and skinny. Result? Bullying. Stiles had grown up a little in the meantime, had grown into himself, but the sad truth was, he was stuck in high school: a place full of insecure people, some of them with a vicious streak who never forgot a single thing and held on to old grudges -Stiles had a mouth on him that got him into trouble too often-, and consequently did not stop calling him names, did not stop playing pranks on him.

“How long have you two … been …,” she prompted.  
“Not having sex,” he reassured her with emphasis. “No horizontal tango. But, uh, something like, uh, five months.”  
“Five months?!” she shouted. “Stiles!”  
“I know, I know, I know. And that’s exactly the problem.”  
“What do you mean?”

He straightened and frowned at her. “Because, at first I thought, hilarious, he’s playing me. It’s just another prank, another joke he’s gonna talk to his jackass friends about. But that hasn’t happened. Meanwhile it’s five months, one week and six days later. Hasn’t really bullied me, called me names. But then he doesn’t even acknowledge me in the hallways, still shoves me out of the way if I walk past, doesn’t bat an eyelash when the others talk smack about me.”

She looked at him in concern as he continued, “I just really needed to tell someone. Someone not Scott, because the only thing he has for me is disapproval.” And he knew he deserved it. “I don’t know what to do. What am I doing, mom? What the hell am I doing? I hate him! He hates me. It’s the way it always has been and then he has to swoop in and ruin the balance. And I’m pretty sure I hate him ever more, now. High school sucks.” He let out an angry groan.

His mother pinched her lips, thinking before she spoke. “Listen, I know you’ve liked him for a while,” (he had and it had been a little embarrassing and entirely inconvenient), “but it’s hard for some boys your age to … be confident about who they are, to be open about being gay, like you. There’s a lot of pressure from their peers, sometimes even from their parents, I don’t know. But, honey, Derek? He’s no good for you. You don’t deserve half-hearted attention and being ignored by someone you genuinely feel something for.”

Stiles was having a hard time holding back tears of anger. Anger, because he knew she was speaking the truth. And he was angry at Derek, so angry, that the guy he was in love with had to be a closeted bastard. For five months, Stiles had been living in a state of confusion as well as happiness. He’d got what he wanted, right? Derek. But just not the way he wanted him. Completely.

“Mom,” he murmured desperately, but didn’t actually formulate a sentence.  
“I know, honey, I know. I’m sorry.”  
“I don’t know what to do,” he repeated bleakly.  
Her face was one of compassion and sympathy. Thankfully he saw no pity or disapproval. “We’ll figure it out,” she vowed. Stiles received a sad smile.

After spending another handful of minutes just looking at the light flickering over the surface of the water, playful and careless, his mother pried his hands loose from where they had latched themselves onto the metal bar while he was repeatedly kicking the barrier, and gave him a gentle push forward. They continued their walk. Stiles felt her head lean against his right shoulder, a welcome weight that did little to relieve another, heavier, unpleasant one.

**Author's Note:**

> So, background: Stiles in the show seems as if he’s got barely any friends in school. Derek in the show, as a high schooler, seemed as if he was a cocksure jock. Put them together, add some exaggeration, some peer pressure and this is what I came up with. A cliché. 
> 
> Maybe they are both a little out of character (D and S) but I don’t really even know where this came from, so I just went with it. 
> 
> Either way, in my head, the story would continue thus: Stiles would stop taking bullshit, start growing up and then he and Derek would be finito. Derek would then realize he needs to change something. He would try to convince Stiles to get back together, but Stiles would say smth like, “Not until you get your shit in order, Derek. I’m done. Goodbye. Toodeloe.” Maybe, hopefully Derek would. But it would take a hell of a long time, with no relapses in their trysts –because Stiles holds his ground. In other words, Derek would need to grow up. Angst, anger and loneliness.


End file.
